The Road Back to Flowerbud
by The Rune Reverend
Summary: Jack, Cliff, Gray, and Claire: four life-long friends leave their lives of stagnant careers and broken dreams behind to return to their childhood home of Flowerbud, but along the way they must avoid trouble around every corner while the Devil's Bounty Hunter-a sadistic, blood-thirsty cowboy named Vaughn-hunts them every step of the way.
1. Jack

CHAPTER ONE: "JACK"

Jack Hill was sure that hell was constructed of white pressboard cubicles and lit with dim florescent lighting. It had to smell of stale carpet and old coffee and it sounded of the hum of phones, computers, and printers. It was populated by bloated, un-impressible micro-managers and simpletons who would rather undercut you behind your back to try and pull themselves just a little higher than you in the boss's eyes, rather than have an open dialogue with you when there was a problem.

Jack had been climbing the corporate ladder since he was 18 and he was convinced that the devil wore a tie, sat at a desk, and was balding.

There was no explanation to why his life was so miserable. Inside his workspace at WingUS, his entire life from 7 to 4:30 was a nightmarish compilation of boredom, tedious work, and joyless co-workers too busy trying to make themselves higher in the eyes of their boss.

It was as white-washed and PC as a company could be. Motivating pictures or funny comic strips weren't allowed after Jim Decker posted a political carton that offended Tim, who was of the opposite political spectrum. Radios were allowed only if everyone could agree on one station. Also impossible. Where one person liked the Top 40, another liked soft-airy classics of the 60s, 70s, and 80s. For every country fan there was someone who liked hip-hop. And of course, Kross, the delivery boy, blared thrash metal when given the chance.

Computers were company owned and internet service was restricted so badly that the only website they could effectively use was Wikipedia and Jack was certain he had memorized all of it by now. He knew the entire history of the world-including the intricacies of the Chinese Dynasties and Russian politics-as well as every current serving congressman and Senator and their opponents in the last elections.

Daily, he had a total of three hours worth of work to stretch over a 9 hour day. He had the initiative, the drive, to succeed, but he floundered in an environment that was as toxic as a landfill. In a normal company, he could ask for more work, more responsibility. But here, under the watchful eyes of Mr. Pennington, not a thing was done that his boss couldn't help take credit for. Being unable to Do something to the benefit of the company without Pennington's involvement was something that had kept Jack down for years now.

And it was pissing him off.

He was constantly overshadowed by people with half his experience and a fourth of his brain power. But those people knew to get chummy with the boss. Jack had never wanted to play office politics. From the time he was little, spending summers at his grandfather's farm, he had been instilled with a work ethic second-to-none. He came to work early, left late, finished his projects with minimal issues and had thus far never come into conflict with anyone.

This was both his greatest strength and most glaring weakness. He was content to keep his head down, never complain, and do his work. But in the corporate world, his stoic manner and never questioning his superiors meant they could treat him any way they wished without reprisal.

Much as he wished the opposite was true, Jack found himself relegated to the company doormat. Whenever someone monumentally screwed up a project, they would find the easiest way to tie to project to Jack and spin it around to where it was his fault. Mainly, he knew, the solid chewing out he would receive meant he would stand there and take the most brutal dressing down seen outside of a military boot camp.

And he took it. He had fought and struggled for so long that he couldn't afford to compromise his position at the company. His raises were miniscule and his praises were non-existent. Not once in his five years here had he been thanked for a job well done-not even so much as a pat on the back.

He wanted to leave, but the economy was terrible. Jobs were scarce. Besides, if they even _suspected _he was looking for another job, they would can him.

So he was stuck, sitting in a tiny cubicle, staring at a computer, with a coffee cup that was always too empty for his liking. But walking to the coffee machine meant the risk of interacting with the snobs, the brown-nosers, the shameless hussies, and Kross, the son of C'thulu, destroyer of worlds.

But here, encompassed in his world of torment, was Jack's one saving grace. The one thing that had helped him stave off his world of white collar hell in the concrete depths of WingUS.

He took it home at night, but snuck it in during the day in his lunch bag. A small potted plant. A normal green plant with no buds and only four green leafs. He watered it at home and let it soak up daylight on the balcony. Here it brought color to a colorless world and made him think of better times on Grandpa's farm.

The work had been hard and Grandpa didn't seem to know what child labor laws were, but there was always a moment of the day, when his work was finished, when Grandpa would look at what he did, nod in approval and say "Good job, son." Pride would beam through him before Grandpa would tell him to stop grinning like a fool and get back to work. He had a weird sense of humor like that. The first memories Jack had were being dropped at the farm. He was a as unsure of Grandpa as Grandpa was of him.

Grandpa's first words to him were: "I am in charge all of the time. If, for some reason, I'm not here, then the dog is in charge."

It wasn't perfect and there was plenty to dislike when he thought about it, but he wouldn't have traded those summers for the world. His heart always warmed, thinking back to that one summer and one girl in particular, holding his hand and cutting through to his heart with those eyes.

Eyes that were alive and full of love. He had never forgotten them.

"Hill."

Spoken with no emotion, the flat tone nevertheless turned Jack's insides to a rigid knot. He had been contemplating recently a gathering of gray hairs at his temples. At 23, he felt like a withered flower under a glaring sun. He was constantly fatigued, needed a bellboy to carry the deep-set bags under his eyes, suffered from stress migraines.

And Mr. Pennington was the source of it all.

He was a petty man, no doubt about that. He knew he had Jack by the short and curlies and exploited it to no end. He couldn't even give him the common courtesy of calling him by his first name. He never passed up an opportunity to assure Jack of where he stood in the company pecking order.

"The Dunham File is due on my desk by Friday." Mr. Pennington, a short, shred looking bald man said. "I've told you about not using condenser files on cases like this. Don't make me tell you again."

"Okay." Jack said, simply.

"I mean it. Don't screw this file up or it's your ass."

His boss left as easily as he had come. It was a simple thing, but in essence, he had ruined Jack's week. The Dunham File wasn't due for another two weeks and now he had half the time to finish it. That meant working at home over the weekend...Oh sweet lord, this was going to ruin him for the next two weeks. He felt a terrible burning in the center of his nose. In no time, it had spread to his forehead and temples. A stress migraine hit him full on right in the middle of the day and he did what he always did: sucked it up and went back to work.

He suffered. And no one noticed. What he wouldn't give for a sweet summer's breeze and a warm hand in his.

At least he still had his sweet release tonight. Even though, he needed to work on the file all week and the weekend, he would make tonight's date. One good relaxing evening before he put his nose back on the grindstone to no benefit.

Not for the first time, Jack hated his life.

XxXxXxXxXxX

**Author's Note: Something of a non-traditional opening to a Harvest Moon story. I hope you stick with it because I promise some excellent storytelling, drama, a few laughs amongst friends, and the promise that in spite of life's unending tribulations, an act of love will always defeat an act of hate.**

**FYI, if you're concerned or wondering about the pairings, please refer to my profile for the answer.**


	2. Gray

CHAPTER TWO: "GRAY"

Check the gauge, push the button, check the plate. Check the gauge, push the button, check the plate. Check the gauge, push the button, check the plate. Check the gauge, push the button, check the plate.

Gray Masters drifted along in a daze of repetition.

If there was one thing he knew better than anything, it was rhythm. The constant beat, beat, beat. Steady, smooth, and rhythmic. He was a master of it, as finely attuned to it as a machine. And since he was running an industrial plate press, constant rhythm was the one thing he could keep up all day and all night.

He did it while he could, because he knew well this job wouldn't be around forever. Thanks to his ear protection, he didn't have to hear the sound of the union members outside, dutifully picketing PVC Industries. Inevitably, they would get the raise they asked for (they always did) and he would be out of a job-again.

The cycle had started when he was 18 and had started such promising work in the plants and factories. Sure, being a helper sucked and the pay was low, but the industrial jobs were made for advancements. Gray's problem was that he never got to be around long enough to advance.

It never failed. Start strong, impress the boss, grab a couple of sweet raises and then...budget cuts. Lay-offs. Team reductions. And the rule of thumb was "Last one in; first one out" This was Gray;s life. Hired, work hard, let go. He couldn't seem to stick around long enough to accumulate enough experience to demand a higher pay. Every time he started out at another contractor or industry he always started at the bottom rung of the ladder.

At 25, it was frustrating to think that he might still be doing grunt work at 35. At 45. At 55. Come retirement age, would he ever be able to retire? Or would he still be working his fingers to the bone, only to be laid off because they hired some young hotshot for half his price?

Problems at home were compounding and he wasn't so sure he knew how to handle them. It had come to the forefront last week when he had run into a new girl in the lunchroom. Some girl, he had never seen her before. She looked like housekeeping staff. She was Italian-maybe Filipino-with long dark hair, a long nose, and the darkest eyes.

Well, his greatest strength was also his most ardent weakness: he was stoic and unflappable in the face of any crisis, but attempting to open up...well, she stopped trying to get his name out of him after the fifth try. He had simply frozen up and taken to staring at her, unable to concoct how to respond.

His mind had spun into overtime, trying to bring out the most perfect line that would sweep her off her feet or impress her the most. Something suave and charming. But he didn't. instead, he'd managed to stare, open his mouth once or twice, and eventually she just read his name tag. After that, every time he worked up the nerve to approach her, he would end up staring again when she turned her head towards him.

There was so much he wanted to say and do, but in his mind it was all perfect and never failed. In real life, he was simply incapable of speaking to girls. When he went home at night, he jumped on the internet and spent hours looking through dirty websites. It was as close as he could manage, but it was artificial. When he met one in real life, his mind always froze and when his mind wandered, it wandered to the most inappropriate images.

Gray wasn't proud of himself, but really, there was nothing else to his life. He had left home a long time ago and wasn't sure what would wait him there if he went back. Here, all he had to do was make sure the pressure was clear on the gauge, push the button to activate the press, and make sure the plate that came out the opposite end was up to snuff.

Check the gauge, push the button, check the plate. Check the gauge, push the button, check the plate. Check the gauge, push the button, check the plate. Check the gauge, push the button, check the plate.

Out of nowhere, the housekeeping girl walked in front of his line of sight and bent over to pick up a wastebasket. Gray's eyes widened, his mind suddenly very much in another realm of reality. She stood back up and caught one look at his wide-eyed face and easily guessed what had been going through his mind.

She had enough time to give him a disgusted look of shock when Gray's wandering mind finally pulled out of the gutter, he realized he wasn't in the rhythm anymore and had been smashing the button without checking the gauge OR the plate and now had several plates jammed in the press and was creating what people in the industrial field liked to refer to as a "Fuggin' disaster".

He smashed the stop button for the factory line and an alarm buzzed. Several angry voices sounded off and Gray winced at the tangled mess of metal he was going to have to clean. When he looked back, the housekeeping girl had an uncertain smile on her face.

Well, an industrial accident was one way to break the ice with a girl, apparently.

After a couple of hours in which Gray spent frantically peeling the twisted plates apart and getting the machine back online, he finally had the machine up and running. He fell back into the rhythm again, but this time with a burning in his face. he had made a fool of himself and it was eating at him this time. It'd helped that his fellow workers had given him some good natured ribbing while he was working. The unscheduled stop in production had meant a several hour long paid lunch break and that was just fine as far as they were concerned.

Gray didn't hear from anyone else about the accident and when the buzzer finally sounded, he had a ray of hope that he could go home and all was forgiven.

One glance at the production supervisor across the floor, urging him into the office shattered that. He began to speculate as he walked across the factory floor. Probably a good write up, a safety report, and a drug screen, just to be sure. He was a good worker. They liked him and he knew it.

Two other supervisors-both above his own foreman-were there along with his foreman. Well, best to get this out of the way. He sat down and took his red and blue cap off. His dirty blue work shirt and jeans were their usually filthy state and stinking of industrial greases and grime. It wasn't uncommon and no one ever noticed, but even washing them they still looked like he'd worked in them all day.

"Sit down, Gray. I assume you know what this is about." His foreman said. Naturally, none of them looked happy. He hated being dressed down by his boss. He never seemed to rise up to a level where he was indispensable and could get away with a mistake once in a while.

Of course, as he figured, they had him fill out a safety report (leaving out the real cause of it, though) and take a drug screening by peeing in a cup. He gave an oral report in detail. He'd had plenty of time to concoct an alternate reasoning to the accident and it had seemed very convincing. That is, until the production supervisor said, "So this had nothing to do with you staring at that girl's backside while you Fubar'd our pressing machine? Because when I watched it happen, that's exactly what it looked like."

Gray's stunned silence told them all they needed.

The plant manager sighed angrily and said, "Son, go get a date, if you're that lonely. Look, let's get right down to it: you're a good worker and your boss vouches for you, but your accident cost the company about half of your yearly pay in the two hours it was down."

Gray swallowed audibly. Like when he was in front of a girl, Gray froze up in the face of a confrontation. he started stammering, "Well, I work hard...and, uh...I'm not late..."

"No, I see that. Your attendance is good, your work record is good. But I'll be honest, son, you cost us a lot of money, no matter how good you work. We can hire a dozen scabs just like you in no time at all."

Gray clenched his teeth. he wanted nothing more than to leap across the table and bash the man's face in. How could they do this? Somehow, he found his voice. "No one cares about how much work I did. You only care about my one mistake. No wonder people went on strike."

The production manager's face went red as he looked at the other two production managers and finally told Gray, "You can come pick up your check on Friday."

Gray slipped out back door of the factory. The meeting had lasted long enough for the sun to slip down and he hung his head at the thought of trekking to the bus stop in near darkness. It was 8:45 and the next one would be along around 9:30, so he got plenty of time to contemplate he badly he'd screwed up.

Man, he really needed to fix this girl problem. He stared at bare backsides for hours on the internet. Why did Carlie in her unflattering jumpsuit make him nearly lose total control. At least the streets were empty and silent. As he jogged slowly across the parking lot, he neared the wood fence around the factory and suddenly found himself jumped on both sides. As soon as he passed the fence, three people tackled him and he went face first into the concrete sidewalk.

He managed to spin around to find himself surrounded by at least a dozen guys in blue shirts that read Local 109.

"Scab, your day just got a whole lot worse."

Gray thought about telling them he didn't work there anymore, but he couldn't stop the snarky words from coming out, "Can't be as bad as when I nailed your old lady."

From there on out, Gray's world was a torrent of pain delivered at the end of knuckles and steel-toed boots. He flinched and huddled up to protect himself, but there were simply too many of them. The last blow, a solid kick to his kidneys, left Gray is so much pain he screamed. The scream lifted out of his lungs thanks to a boot in the gut. The last thing he heard them say was "Find another job, scab!"

Not for the first time, Gray hated his life.


End file.
